Words
by Chazza220
Summary: Numerous Johnlock one shots based off of words my friends give me. Rated T for later stories.
1. Chapter 1

Bored

'Bored.'

There it was, the one word John had been dreading for the past week and a half, the past case-less, running-free, peaceful week and a half, and John knew it wouldn't last.

They'd solved the latest case Lestrade had handed to them in a matter of minutes. He said they'd, really Sherlock had just pointed towards the crime scene and painted a picture whilst John sat by the mangled body of a middle aged man.

'Borreeedd.' Sherlock's voice volume increasing as he whined again.

John sighed knowing if he didn't do something quickly there would be gunshots resounding around the flat. He hauled himself out of his chair and walked towards the sofa that Sherlock was so dramatically strewn across; his arms flung out at odd angles and his legs bent obscurely, half underneath himself in order to accommodate for his height being too much for the relatively small sofa.

Just as John reached Sherlock, the latter let out a huge yell of 'BORED!' and without bothering to open his eyes to check his surroundings, spun his arm out into the space around him. In the process of doing so he managed to make contact with the side of John's left shoulder, sending the doctor into howls of pain as he grabbed at his old gun wound.

'John?' Sherlock said, his voice panic-laden as his eyes opened suddenly, instantly darting around the room in search for the source of John's cries, eventually resting on the scene of his friend curled into a tight ball, clutching his shoulder and holding back sobs as he swore into the carpet next to the sofa.

'John, what's wrong?' Sherlock asked, still slightly confused as to what had happened due to the fact that whilst he had been unknowingly shouting across the flat, he was isolated in his mind palace, his thoughts wondering towards the man he had just accidentally attacked. Now his attention was fully turned to the real John who was still lying on the floor, his obvious pain not decreasing.

'You bloody punched me!' John shouted, his fists balled. 'You just flung your arms out and expect me to dodge them?' He yelled, turning his head up towards Sherlock, who had now knelt down next to him.

'Oh god John, I am so sorry.' Sherlock whispered, his eyes glistening with worry, an emotion that was rarely present in his thoughts was suddenly taking control of the situation. Jumping into a standing position, he stepped over John and headed towards the kitchen.

'Oi! Where are you going? Just going to leave me on the bloody floor?' John shouted at him, although he couldn't help noticing the hurry in which Sherlock moved and the sincerity in his voice as he apologised.

Sherlock didn't reply and instead opened the cupboard under the sink and retrieved John's medical kit. After returning to him, he gently placed his hands on John's right side and rolled him onto his back. Although wincing in pain, he allowed Sherlock to straighten his shoulder, although when he began to tug on the hem of John's jumper he commented.

'Sherlock! What are you doing?' John exclaimed, his neck reddening a bit at the thought of Sherlock taking off his clothes, although he pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind as quickly as they had come.

'John, your shoulder's mucked up, I can't do anything about it if it's covered by your jumper can I?' Sherlock sighed, inwardly smirking at the blush that rose in John's cheeks.

'Oh-oh yeah…' John trailed off, lifting his back slightly off of the floor to make it easier for Sherlock to remove the jumper. Sherlock slid his hands under the wool and gently lifted it over the doctor's head, manoeuvring it around his left shoulder with caution. After having successfully removed the item of clothing, Sherlock looked down towards the wound, having never taken the time to really see it before. It was beautiful. Just like everything else about John.

John glanced nervously towards Sherlock, who seemed transfixed by John's scar, which was now red and swollen from Sherlock's attack. Suddenly shy of Sherlock's view of his naked upper half, he attempted to turn away from Sherlock's gaze, ignoring the pain it caused him.

Sherlock, realising he'd been staring, gently reached out after John as the smaller man turned away and placed a hand on his wrist, pulling him back round to face him.

'It's horrible, I kno-' John started, but was not given time to finish before he felt Sherlock's lips on his own. It only lasted for a few seconds but in that time his hands flew to Sherlock's hair and he felt the taller man wrap his arm around his waist.

Suddenly Sherlock pulled back, confusion clouding his eyes.

'John, I'm so sorry, I don't know what I was thinking and…' Sherlock said worriedly, removing his hand from John's hips and standing up. 'It was just you were there, and hurt and shy, and your pupils dilated and I felt your pulse but that was probably from the pain.' Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, his usual composure completely gone, replaced by near normal emotions.

'Sherlock.' John whispered, struggling to stand up but eventually finding his feet and turning to face the taller man. He took a step forward, closing the gap between the two of them and slowly began to wrap his arms around Sherlock's waist.

'My pupils are dilated, not because of the pain, because of you.' He whispered.

'But I inflicted the pain.' Sherlock responded, his regular tone returning slightly at John's touch.

'Because you are near me, because you are you, because…' And then John leant up on his tiptoes and kissed Sherlock, his arms tightening around the detective.

Sherlock melted into him, his long fingers of his left hand twirling strands of John's hair whilst his other explored his bare chest. John ran his tongue across Sherlock's bottom lip, begging for entrance, to which Sherlock happily complied. Their kiss deepened and the two were locked onto each other, passion flying from every pore, sparks exploding around them.

Eventually they surfaced for breath, pulling apart only enough for them to take in air, their foreheads touching.

'Still bored Sherlock?' John asked with a grin.

'Not at all.' Sherlock replied, pulling John back against his mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

Smile

Sherlock's smiles were rare, almost an endangered species of his emotions, almost never seen, always discrete. That was before he met John.

John. The man who could lift his spirits, who could make his mind slow down even a tenth of its high speed pace, who could make him laugh. Sherlock had always been able to shut off his emotions, keep up his appearance of 'high functioning sociopath'; he'd never needed anyone, but the presence of this man, this soldier, this doctor in his life had made him feel. More than he ever thought was possible.

But it was these emotions that had been limiting even the amount of smiles John could provoke over the past few weeks; emotions that Sherlock had no idea what to do with, a warming sensation that erupted in the pit of his stomach whenever John entered the room, a fuzzy pink haze that settled over his mind whenever his flatmate was so much as mentioned. Sherlock knew what these feelings were; he'd heard of them, John had reeled off endless examples of them when trying to influence a case. They were the feelings of love. He, Sherlock Holmes, was in love, with John Watson.

He was distracting, causing Sherlock to feel the need to stare at the army doctor, a need that was affecting his work. Sherlock would constantly glance over at John, at a crime scene, stake out, even when Lestrade was questioning them after a successful case. Sherlock was distracted, these feelings were powerful and he liked them, but if his concentration continued to drop he was certain John would notice. Like usual, he was not wrong.

'Sherlock?' John called from the bottom of the stairs.

No response.

'Sherlock! I need help with this shopping; I can't carry it all up by myself.' John shouted, not expecting his words to have any effect on the obviously preoccupied detective. Although preoccupied might not be the correct word, more lazy, uninterested and arrogant.

Sherlock's eyes flew open from his John filled mind palace and directed his thoughts towards the real John who currently required his help, and for once he was considering actually assisting him, before realising that that is not what would be expected of him and his actions might deemed suspicious in John's eyes. 'Suspicious! What do I care of suspicious?' Sherlock thought to himself.

'This love business is ridiculous. I can't do anything without considering whether John might suspect me of said feelings.'

Sherlock was drawn from his thoughts again by the familiar footsteps of his flatmate. The difficulty the doctor was facing due to his smaller build and the huge weight of the shopping bags in his arms was obvious to Sherlock from the slight grunts the John took with every sluggish step and Sherlock suddenly found himself so overwhelmed with the need to help John and just to see him again that he was standing in the doorframe before John had managed to reach the top step.

'Oh, you heard me then?' John breathed heavily, thrusting 2 of the full grocery bags in Sherlock's direction with slight smile playing on his lips, trying to hide the funny sensation in his stomach that always occurred when Sherlock did something for him that he would do for no one else.

Sherlock did not return the smile, merely took the shopping in his hands and turned towards the kitchen, silently cursing himself for letting his emotions get the better of him.

'Sherlock, I've been meaning to ask you. Well you seem a bit out of it lately.' John murmured following Sherlock into their kitchen.

'That's not a question John, that's a statement. Now if you don't mind, I'm rather busy.' Sherlock lied, turning to one of his numerous experiment s placed precariously on the table in the middle of the room.

'No you're not.' John said. 'You did that experiment yesterday, viewed it as a waste of your time and told me to throw it out.'

'Which you obviously did not do.' Sherlock stated, his back to John.

'Because I am not willing to go near what looks like a bloody platter of diseased kneecaps!' John exclaimed. 'Anyway, my question.'

'Busy John.' Sherlock grunted making it obvious he did not want to talk.

'I don't care. You've been acting strangely, more than usual.' John started. 'You've been somewhat more bearable here in the flat, but your deductions have been off, just slightly. You've been missing some of the points you'd normally get in a single glance.' John paused, glad to finally be able to point out what had been worrying him for the past month.

Sherlock's grip tightened on the petri dish he was holding, still trying to continue the façade that he was busy and not just trying to avoid John's prying words.

'I'm fine Jo-' Sherlock growled but John cut him off.

'No you're not, you are really not.' John said firmly. 'You are going to tell me what is bothering you and I am going to try and fix it.' He reached out his hand and placed in cautiously on Sherlock's shoulder, trying to ignore the electric buzz he felt at the contact. Sherlock froze instantly, John could feel him tense under his touch but he didn't remove his hand.

'Why would you try to fix it?' Sherlock almost whispered.

'Because I care.' John stated simply, as if it solved the matter instantly. Which it would have, however when the person you are trying to talk to is Sherlock, things are not as straightforward.

'Caring is a disadvantage John. We've been over this.' Sherlock replied, pushing away John's hand and turning to face him. 'Caring is a defect, caring is pointless and stupid and benefits no one.' By this point Sherlock was trying to convince himself more than John. Trying to push away his feelings, return to his normal state, but they wouldn't go.

'Sherlock no. Just no.' John said, grabbing the detective by the shoulders, forcing him to look down into the army doctor's eyes. 'Tell me.'

And then Sherlock did something that he would definitely do for no one else, something John didn't even think the detective would do for him, except for in his imagination. He kissed him.

It was brief and simple, lasting no more than a few seconds. Suddenly aware of the situation he had put the two of them in, Sherlock pulled away, his eyes filled with fear and love betraying his poker face he had donned after the kiss.

'Well everything makes sense now.' John said quietly. He raised his reddened face and locked eyes with the detective once more.

'What?' Sherlock replied hoarsely, his voice coming out more vulnerable than he would have liked.

But Sherlock never got an answer as John had pulled him back down and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. Quickly Sherlock gained control over his brain again and responded, placing both of his hands on the back of John's neck, playing with the tufts of hair delicately. John moaned quietly at the touch and wrapped his right arm around Sherlock's waist, pulling him closer, whilst his left went straight to the younger man's hair, brushing his fingers through the wild curls.

Eventually they both remembered the vital importance of breathing and broke apart. Both men's faces a deep shade of pink and panting heavily. Grins covered their faces and Sherlock felt his muscles ache in his jaw due to his lack smiling recently.

'God, I've missed that smile.' John said between breaths.

'I finally have a reason to smile.'


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I am so sorry it has taken me so long to update this! I had 3 weeks of mocks and it all sucked, but I'm here now.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock, I swear to Satan if I did I would not make you guys wait this long for Season 3.**

* * *

Ill

'Fuck. Fucky shit bollocks arse titty.' John murmured quietly.

'John dearest, please can you refrain from using the basic forms of swearing to express your emotions.' Sherlock said, looking up from his chair in the living room towards the pile of blankets that was slowly making its way towards the kitchen. 'And please be careful. The experiment in progress is very harmful and you would not fare well if you decided to knock it over with the extra layers you have decided to don this morning.'

'I haven't _decided to don _them because I felt like it Sherlock.' John replied angrily, turning to face the detective. 'I've got a bloody cold and it feels like we are living in the arctic so you will have to put up with the extra bulk.' John swore quietly again as he turned back to the kitchen too quickly, his sinuses complaining prominently in the front of his head.

Sherlock smirked behind John's back, and then rose from his chair and made his way into the kitchen. He quickly reached John and placed his hands on his boyfriends waist, or the place where his waist should be, instead finding numerous blankets and what felt like the duvet from their bed.

'John, go and lie down on the sofa. Don't be an idiot, if you're sick you need to rest.' Sherlock said quietly in John's ear. Sherlock felt John shiver and was not sure if it was his cold or his reaction to Sherlock's sudden close proximity. Knowing John would not listen to Sherlock's advice and continue to attempt making tea, he wrapped his arms around John's waist and guided him into the living room and then turned him around gently so they were chest to chest before pushing him lightly back onto the sofa.

'Stay.' Sherlock said and he returned to the kitchen to finish making the tea, ignoring the groan emitting from John after being pushed over.

'I'm not a dog Sherlock.' John exclaimed, and then winced at the pain his outburst had added to his already pounding headache. But after attempting to glare at Sherlock's back, the effort proved too much and he resigned himself to laying half on the sofa with his eyes closed.

When he opened them again he was surprised to see Sherlock returning to the kitchen with two large mugs of tea and what looked to be a plate of jam covered toast.

'You really know do know how to make a guy better.' John smiled warmly as the consulting detective seated himself beside him. He eagerly reached out for the plate and mug but was stopped when Sherlock pulled them back, out of his reach and placed them on the table in front of the two men. He quickly extracted a box of paracetamol tablets from his dressing gown pocket and shoved them into John's hand.

'You know how this works, you are the doctor. Drugs first, then tea.' Sherlock said smugly, before leaving John to open the packet. He collected a glass of water from the kitchen and was soon back at John's side, holding the glass out to him as the shorter man placed a tablet on his tongue.

After John had taken the medicine, Sherlock promptly handed over the cup of tea John was obviously so eager for. John held the steaming mug in both his hands and inhaled deeply. Just as he was about to take a sip he stopped and looked up towards Sherlock, who was still sitting close to him on the sofa.

'Is something wrong?' Sherlock asked, puzzled by John's sudden lack of interest in his tea.

'Just, thank you.' John replied, placing the untouched mug back on the table. 'Thank you for taking care of me. I can't say that me being ill is the most interesting thing you could be using to occupy your time; it mean a lot to me so, thanks.' John smiled slightly and looked down, suddenly very interested in his knees.

'John.' Sherlock said quietly. He could see the tips of the army doctor's ears were tinged red after his heartfelt statement and Sherlock couldn't help but find it the most adorable thing he'd ever seen. Sherlock slowly stretched out his arm and cupped John's cheek, pulling him up gently to look into his dazzling, cornflower eyes. 'John, you are the most interesting thing to ever occupy my time. You have to know that. You could never bore me, whether you're ill, or upset, or drunk, nothing will ever stop you from being the most fascinating thing to ever enter my life.'

The sparkle in John's eyes that had been so brutally dimmed by his cold returned tenfold as he smiled up at Sherlock. The younger man leant down towards John and placed both of his hands on the sides of John's slightly warmed face.

'I'll give you my cold.' John giggled.

'I think that's a chance I'm willing to take.' Sherlock replied seductively. He then moved closer to John and tenderly kissed him, his hands straying from the older man's face, into his hair and the back of his neck. John returned the kiss passionately, opening his mouth to give Sherlock's tongue access. John moaned into the kiss and pushed Sherlock backwards so he was lying down on the sofa, John kneeling over him with his hands pressed against his chest; their mouths not breaking contact.

They continued kissing, tongues exploring each other's mouths, hands roaming, John's tea going cold, completely forgotten.


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: I don't ow Sherlock BBC, these characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Mofftiss.**

* * *

****Observe

Lestrade had always been an observer. Not a Sherlock- standard observer. But he saw the details, the connections, the feelings. Whilst Sherlock had an eye only for the murders and the crimes (and John), Greg could deduce a person's feelings nearly as quickly. That's why from the day he was introduced to John, he knew the doctor and Sherlock's 'just flatmate' status was going to become a lot more.

Unlike the others in the department who fooled around, always making jokes about John and Sherlock's romantic attachment, Lestrade always believed they would end up together. No doubt about it. He could see the lingering glances, the secret smiles, the inside jokes that others ignored. And whilst some might say this could just be considered very close friendship, Lestrade knew Sherlock well enough to know that he didn't do close friendship, or smiling for that matter. And John, although not a high-functioning sociopath, had been scarred by the war, and yet after knowing Sherlock for less than two days had been cured of his limp and his eyes were smiling along with his mouth.

Lestrade always knew the two men would stop edging around their feelings eventually, he just wasn't sure exactly when it would happen. He anticipated it of course, but that still did not prepare him for the day when it actually happened; as Greg was sure it would be an intimate revealing of feelings when John and Sherlock were alone in their flat after a high speed chase through the streets of London, not in front of the entirety of Scotland Yard after Sherlock had foolishly run off on his own and hadn't even informed John of his plans.

The two men in question were facing each other just outside the abandoned block of flats Sherlock had revealed the drug ring to have been based in, after breaking in alone, without back-up or anyone who knew his whereabouts. If it hadn't been for John's quick thinking at tracking Sherlock's phone GPS signal they would have arrived too late and Sherlock would have ended up with a bullet through his temple. Luckily John stormed the shabby lounge area just in time, followed by at least twenty armed policemen and took on the leader himself, beating him in a matter of punches, his worry and anger at Sherlock driving him. He then freed the source of his new found rage from his bonds and dragged the detective outside before proceeding to punch him straight in the nose.

"You idiot! You complete and utter idiot!" John yelled at Sherlock's blank face, his expression containing and hiding any emotions he was or might have been feeling at that moment, but all the while cradling his nose carefully as he attempted to stop the blood flow. "Why didn't you tell me what your plan was? Did you not deem my concerns bloody important enough? Or did you just forget that I actually damn care Sherlock?" John's voice grew even louder at that last part, his brow furrowed and jaw clenched. All clear signs to anyone nearby to stand back and not to interfere.

With John and Sherlock barely a foot apart from each other, Sherlock's whispered response was difficult for Lestrade to hear as the consulting detective's mask broke and the tears welled in his eyes.

"John." He almost choked out. "I-I-uh didn't mean to worry you. I guess, I-um sometimes forget that I have someone who cares whether I come home or not." Sherlock's eyes glistened with pain and humiliation, but also something else Greg couldn't quite identify. Evidently John could because his anger melted away almost instantaneously.

"Well you do. I care Sherlock. Even more than you realise. And I worry. I worry so much. So don't you go running off without me again. I'll always follow you Sherlock. Don't you forget that." John replied, looking straight up at the detective and placing a hand gently on top of Sherlock's hand that was still cupping his swollen nose. "Sorry about that. I was a soldier."

Sherlock smirked and brought his hand down; away from his face but turning it so it was palm to palm with John's. "You were a doctor." He mumbled; his thoughts obviously more focused on the intimate contact between him and his doctor.

"So let me fix you." John took a deep breath and raised himself up onto his tiptoes, pressing his lips against Sherlock's nervously.

Everyone surrounding them gasped in surprise, but Lestrade was happy, ecstatic even. He could now identify the third thing he had been able to see in Sherlock's eyes. It had been love.

Sherlock tentatively let go of John's hand and placed both of his larger ones on his blogger's waist as their kiss deepened. Both men's minds went blank; they were no longer aware of their surroundings and it was as if they were the only two people left on the earth. Sherlock opened his mouth and John quickly slid in his tongue, exploring the man he loved's mouth. After the wolf whistles and shouts of 'get a room' from the surrounding officers became more noticeable to the two men and they both pulled away reluctantly.

"The reason I didn't tell you where I was going was because I care about _you _too much to watch you get hurt." Sherlock whispered, ignoring the on looking crowd.

"Then I guess we're both screwed." John laughed quietly, before placing a chaste kiss on Sherlock's mouth.

"Well you two took your time." Lestrade swaggered up to them. "Though I'm glad it happened; that's damn sure." He grinned at Sherlock and John like a proud father would, he almost felt like a proud father until he realised that being a father or even just a father-like figure to Sherlock or John even would probably be hellish. He laughed to himself, his giggles increasing as the doctor and his detective looked at him with puzzled expressions.

"Oh don't mind me." Greg laughed. "Get back to snogging kids." This sent him into more fits of giggles.

The two men continued to look at the DI for a few seconds before deciding to take his advice and their lips were upon each other's in a matter of seconds.

Lestrade looked up at the couple and felt his heart warm again at the sight. Grinning he walked back to his car with the intention of returning to his flat, only to be met by a man in a three piece suit leaning on an umbrella standing by the passenger side door. Greg grinned up at Mycroft and nodded back to the still kissing couple behind him.

"I know." Mycroft said solemnly, giving the impression that he did not approve of the recent turn of events.

Greg was about to question his tone when the government's face broke into a huge, un-Mycroft-y grin that not many people got the privilege to see.

"I couldn't be happier." The posh git smirked. "Although it does make you think."

Greg looked up at him over the roof of the car, confused.

"Sherlock has John. I have no one." Mycroft answered Lestrade's silent question.

"Would you like to go to dinner My?" Greg asked, gesturing towards the many restaurants lining the streets around them.

"I would love to."


	5. Chapter 5

**So me and friend were texting and this sort of happened. It is kind of cracky, really quite random.**

**DICSLAIMER: Don't own any of this. I don't Sherlock, or John, or Mycroft, or Mrs Hudson's cleavage (you'll see). They all belong to Mofftiss and ACD and Una Stubbs.**

**Sexual references, some swearing. **

* * *

Texting:

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 17:34

John? – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 17:36

Yes Sherlock? – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 17:37

It's Monday. – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 17:39

I know. –JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 17:39

I tumble dried your red pants. – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 17:42

You did? Thanks, that's why they feel all warm. – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 17:43

Yes, that was me. – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 17:44

Though I'm not sure how you found them. I hide this pair. – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 17:45

You keep them in the safest place you know. – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 17:46

Which is? – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 17:47

Mrs Hudson's cleavage. – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 17:48

Holy shit Sherlock. Inappropriate. And I'm at work. – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 17:50

I know, although I'd rather you were working on me. But don't bite, I hate that. – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 17:52

Sherlock, seriously, I'm with a patient. I will turn my phone off! – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 17:53

Fine. Have you seen my harpoon? I could have sworn it was I the fridge. – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 17:55

I've hidden it. You said you were bored before I left so I thought I'd give you a puzzle. Deduce where it is. – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 17:55

You've given it to Mycroft haven't you? – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 17:56

Nope – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 17:57

You fed it to Mycroft? – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 17:58

Sherlock, stop being mean about your brother. – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 17:59

Fine. The pocket of my second best dressing gown? – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 18:01

Now you're being ridiculous. The pocket of your dressing gown is hardly big enough to hold a harpoon…genius my arse. –JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 18:02

Now that's inappropriate! I'm at work! – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 18:05

You're not at work! I bet you haven't moved from the sofa since I left for the hospital this morning except to look for your bloody harpoon! – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 18:06

I have! I'm with a client. – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 18:07

Oh, anything interesting? – JW

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 18:07

Wait, why do you need a harpoon for a client? – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 18:09

No reason, he's gone now, only a six. Not worth my time. Now hurry up and get home, I need to borrow your arse. – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 18: 10

My arse?! – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 18:11

I'm studying the rate penetration of gamma radiation on flesh, or a large scale model. – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 18:13

So you need my arse?! – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 18:12

You are the flesh and I'm the gamma radiation. – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 18:12

What? – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 18:13

The implication is sex John. – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 18:14

Well, when you put it like that, how can I refuse? I'll be home in 20 minutes. – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 18:16

Well whilst you're travelling, can you at least tell me where you put my harpoon? – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 18:19

Fine, it's in 221c. – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 18:19

Inspiring. – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 18:20

Hey, you didn't find it. – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 18:21

Shut up, get home and limber up. – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 18:21

Someone's bossy. I like it. – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 18:21

And someone else is being slow. – S

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 18:24

Well I'm sorry I can't control London traffic. I would call Mycroft and ask him to sort out the traffic lights but he might ask why and I don't really

want to explain that I want to get home so I can have my arse pounded into a mattress by his baby brother. – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 18:24

I see your predicament. - SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 18:25

Oh wait, the traffic is speeding up now. – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 18:26

I know. – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 18:27

What? Why would you kn-YOU TEXTED MYCROFT, DIDN'T YOU? –JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 18:28

I did, although he already knew of this conversation, he has got our phones tabbed.

FROM: MYCROFT HOLMES

RECEIVED: 18:28

I'd appreciate it if you two could not call on me for favours that benefit you both in a sexual nature. Ever. And Sherlock, I'd appreciate it if you could lessen the weight jokes. Childish. – MH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 18:29

I hate my life. – JW

FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES

RECEIVED: 18:30

Yes, how wonderful, now hurry up, I'm naked and the kitchen table is cold. – SH

FROM: JOHN WATSON

RECEIVED: 18:31

SHERLOCK! – JW

FROM: MYCROFT HOLMES

RECEIVED: 18:31

SHERLOCK! - MH


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: So yeah, this one's a little bit angsty, less romance. Sorry. And it's a bit short. Sorry again.**

* * *

Machine

"You machine."

The words played over and over again in John's head. One of the last things he'd ever said to Sherlock and it had been one of the lowest, cruellest comments he'd ever made. He'd crossed over the line he swore he never would. The side of the line on which people like Anderson and Donovan stood, with words like 'freak' dominating every sentence they had ever said to Sherlock Holmes. And now Sherlock was gone, and John was stuck with the festering ball of guilt residing in his gut, never resting, always there, and always accompanied by the scorching pain of losing Sherlock.

The evening sky was a murky grey; dark clouds hiding the stars, promising rain, as John trudged towards the cemetery, ignoring the faint rumbling of thunder following him, or just not registering it. Ever since Sherlock had died, everything had faded in John's eyes, colours becoming monotone, noises muffled and faint. Nothing had meaning anymore, nothing was important, not even grabbing an umbrella on the way out of the flat. John didn't care.

He pushed open the rusting gate of the graveyard and made his way down the path that had grown so familiar in the past three months. He walked slowly towards Sherlock's grave, barely registering the mud overlaying the trampled grass beneath his feet, splashing brown on his trousers. Despite his slow pace, he was at the headstone quicker than expected; quicker than he would have liked. John wasn't exactly sure why he was there, it wasn't an anniversary of his death, it had been 102 days, and it wasn't Sherlock's birthday, that wasn't for 116 days. He stopped in front of the grave and stared at the two words on the stone for a few minutes, trying to figure out what he wanted to say, and how he wanted to say it.

"I'm sorry." They escaped John's lips before he could stop them. They sounded feeble, like a pathetic excuse for what he had said on the day of Sherlock's death. John's shoulder's shook as he tried to reword his sentence to the headstone.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I never meant to say that. I didn't mean it, I was stressed and worried about Mrs Hudson…and I was scared-scared for you because I had no idea what was happening." John gulped and tried to blink back the tears that were attempting to escape, knowing that if he broke now, he would never finish what he needed to say. "I haven't even said what I'm apologising for. Though, knowing you, you'd have already figured it out by the way my shoulders are set or something, if-if you were here." At that John had to rub his hand of his face and step forward to lean against the gravestone to stop his knees from giving way.

"Oh god, you're not here. I can't say this to your face." John almost yelled down at the grave. "You're gone and nothing matters anymore, you died and I can't move on. I can't do anything anymore. Every time I try, the pain comes straight back and I imagine what it would be like if you were there with me, and the guilt comes too and I remember what I said, and if I hadn't of said that I wonder if it would it have made any difference. If I hadn't let my bloody tongue slip w-would you still be here?"

John's legs finally gave way and he collapsed against Sherlock's grave, tears streaming from his eyes. He shuffled towards Sherlock's name and slowly traced the letters with his index finger, his forehead falling against the cold marble. John's sobs echoed around the empty graveyard, his mind swirling with images of Sherlock, laughing, thinking, deducing. Eventually, his eyes slid closed and his hand dropped to his side, tears still sliding down his face as he slipped into an uneasy unconsciousness.

From the shadows a figure emerged, dark hair hiding his eyes, billowing coat pulled tight around him from the oddly chilling September wind. He walked silently towards John, hands shaking slightly, head bowed. The figure knelt before the smaller man and lifted his face, finally revealing the ice blue eyes reddened around the edges and cheeks peppered with salty tears. He reached forward to wipe the remaining tears from John's face.

"Oh John," Sherlock whispered, "this is my fault, not yours. I'm sorry, my John."


End file.
